


Melt Your Headaches, Call It Home

by SplatPhan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Self-Harm, Smoking, i have no skill... do not be fooled, mentions of previous self-harm, terrible terrible writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplatPhan/pseuds/SplatPhan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He brings the lit cigarette to his lips and takes in a drag, letting the smoke billow out of his mouth and into the chilly air after a few moments of it filling his mouth, his lungs, his nose, and washing out all of the problems from his brain. It feels as though it's infecting him again, and maybe it is, but Dan can't help it. He loves the returned feeling like a mum loves her son and he's missed it so much, and it elevates his senses. It numbs the pain, but everything else is heightened intensely, and he fucking loves it.</p><p>Ah, right.</p><p>This is why it was hard to quit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melt Your Headaches, Call It Home

Pretending isn't easy.

Pretending to be okay is the hardest thing Dan has ever done, but he keeps up appearances with a plastered-on smile and eyes glazed with determination. Determination to get through each day without slipping up and falling back into old routines. Determination to keep up appearances. Determination to hide the fact that he's falling, oh how he's falling, and no one is there to catch him. Each day is filled with a pounding in his mind, as if a tiny person is standing on his brain and knocking insistently on Dan's skull, shouting words full of anger and malice that feed on any exuberant thoughts in his mind, sharpening the edges until they're jagged with unhappiness and remind him of a time when long sleeves were a necessity.

He never told Phil about his lowest points, even when he had the urge once again near the beginning of their relationship. Phil's the reason he's held out this long, and Dan relies on him to keep him strong, keep him sturdy, and keep him from falling like the angels he once looked up to to help him through the tough times. Phil's like his fallen angel, and Dan can't help but love him for that.

Phil's done the job he never agreed to well, and Dan's been okay for the past couple of years, but recently old habits are nagging at the back of his mind and the box he keeps hidden in his wardrobe behind the pair of shoes he still has from when he was 15 has never looked so tempting.

And Phil's gone for the week. He had to go stay in the Americas with an old friend for a conference that Dan was supposed to go to as well but no one likes those stupid things anyway and they agreed to let Phil Skype him during the meeting and Dan figures he can just wear long sleeves during the call.

His hands are shaking now and he's trying to hold back, so he throws open a window and grips the sill, letting out deep breaths as he sticks his head past the - non-essential, and, in his opinion, inconvenient and unnatural - hole in the wall. Long, deep breaths of the chilly London night air fill his lungs and his hands steady the slightest bit as he mulls over the existance of windows. His eyes rake across the glittering lights of the city with envy, longing to be out there with them, floating like the halos of fallen angels. He can't seem to shake the thought that he's completely alone, despite the thrum of life he can sense in the streets and the knowledge that the world is full of over 7 billion people, each one with a story and a life and problems. Dan knows the way each one of them feels, because he's practically made of problems.

It's after the next few gasps fill his aching lungs with air that he realizes breathing is painful, and looking for a sign of some form of life in the shimmering city isn't going to help anyone, least of all the boy who pretends. So he shuts the window - quite a bit harder than he intends to - and stops breathing for the next couple of moments, letting the after-effects of the mini-earthquake caused by his slamming of the window wash over him like a bath.

His thoughts turn back to the box.

It's small, and its only contents are a razorblade that hasn't been touched in years and a pack of cigarettes, a habit that he couldn't quit when he was younger, despite his parents' urging. The matches are with the candles he and Phil keep in the kitchen, and the only time they're used is the semi-regular, candle-lit, take-out dinner that they share with conversation about the latest episode of whatever anime they're watching. Phil noticed the way Dan and his clothes used to reek of smoke, so he made an effort to help him with one of his many, many problems.

He has helped, but the temptation returned with the pounding on Dan's skull and he can't hold himself back any longer. The window is opened again with a sigh aimed at the horrid repetition of his actions and he steps down the hall to the kitchen, sorting through mugs and plates and bowls until remembering that the matches are below the counter and looking under there. He comes back up a second later, successful in his searching. His feet carry him back to his room, and the wardrobe is flung open with another deep sigh. Dan's hands shuffle up against wood near the back and the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile full of sadness. The box is retrieved from it's hiding spot slowly, reluctantly, like a child being told to come inside after a long day playing with his best friend.

His fingers shiver when they grip the sides of the smaller box and pull it out, open it, and dance across the open ends of the cigarettes with a vigour. He pulls one out and slips open the matchbox, grabs a single wooden match, and strikes it against the side. The flame bursts to life much like the the returning of Dan's overwhelming desire to bring a blade across his skin. It's as the cigarette catches fire that he wonders for a split second why on earth it was so hard to quit the habit.

He brings the lit cigarette to his lips and takes in a drag, letting the smoke billow out of his mouth and into the chilly air after a few moments of it filling his mouth, his lungs, his nose, and washing out all of the problems from his brain. It feels as though it's infecting him again, and maybe it is, but Dan can't help it. He loves the returned feeling like a mum loves her son and he's missed it so much, and it elevates his senses. It numbs the pain, but everything else is heightened intensely, and he fucking loves it.

Ah, right.

This is why it was hard to quit.

He coughs through the smoke, and a murmured 'shit' leaves his lips, breaking the unspoken vow of silence surrounding him. He puts the cigarette to his mouth again and inhales deeply, and he can feel his lungs begin to ache, feels the smoke fill his chest and leave his mouth slowly, carefully, and he coughs once more but it's not as harsh as the first, and the pain has been reduced to nothing.

His mind wanders.

If a tree falls in the forest and lands with a 'crash', but there's no one around to hear it, does it make any sound at all? Dan remembers this question being asked by his grandfather when he was quite young, and since then it's stuck in his mind.

He supposes that if it's given that the tree lands with a 'crash', it must make a noise. However, if no one hears it, the sound is not provable, nor relevant, therefore why even bother asking this question at all. If he really, really thinks about it for more than a couple of seconds, he ties the sound in with the inevitability of death. The tree falling may symbolize a human dying, and the unheard sound may symbolize the fact that people don't always have someone to even care about their death. He ponders this for a moment before shaking his head and tapping the end of his cigarette outside the windowsill, watching ashes fall like snow onto the pavement below. He laughs. Who the hell gets philosophical over a tree?

Dan continues in his routine - drag, ponder life's many unsolvable questions, exhale, ignore the returning urge, drag. When the cigarette is reduced to nothing but a butt, he drops it out the window and watches as it falls like the ashes.

His phone rings from it's spot on the bed, but he ignores it, figuring it's just a friend calling for advice that can wait. The air in the flat reeks of smoke and regret, and he looks at the blade sitting on his desk.

I don't need you, he thinks, fingers itching to grab the sharp metal.

I don't want you, he thinks, yet his mind aches for the image of blood oozing from his arm.

Phil would hate me, he thinks, and he steps over to pick up the razor, tears pricking at his bloodshot eyes. But I guess he already does, right? What difference would it make. He won't find out. I won't do it again. Just this once, he thinks.

Just this once, he thinks, but he knows that's a lie, and as he rolls up his right sleeve his body quivers with anticipation and he can't hold back any longer and the blade is drawn across his skin and he lets out a hiss mixed with a sigh, because it feels just as good as smoke infecting his lungs.

The blood beads on the ripped flesh and begins to drip a trail down his bicep. Dan furrows his eyebrows as it nearly seeps onto the fabric of his shirt, and he tilts his arm downwards, always subconsciously making sure to maintain his aesthetic.

He smiles. It stings like shit and now his heart is heavy but he smiles. The pounding has subdued to a rythmic chanting that merely sounds like Phil Phil Phil Phil Phil, and it makes sense, because that boy is on Dan's mind constantly. Phil would be disappointed with him for cutting, for returning to old habits, but he's okay with that because it's Phil and he'll probably just forget about it after a nice fuck and a good night's sleep.

Dan regrets it as soon as he thinks it, because Phil doesn't forget, but his mind is insistent on making him believe Phil would forget, so the blade is drawn down his wrist again and a tear drips onto the cut and it hurts, oh god it hurts.

Again and again and again until his just-dark-enough-to-be-considered-tan skin is littered with cuts and blood and tears and whatever grime has accumulated since Dan last took a shower. He finally lets out a choked sob that's filled with horror as he realizes what a big mistake he's made. His arm is caked with blood - dried and fresh - and his legs are shaking from holding the weight of his deadbeat body. The blade clatters back to the top of his desk and he grips his wrist tightly, mind searching frantically to find a way to stop the bleeding. Though the pain feels good, he's scared by how nonchalantly he cut, how distant he felt from his actions, how easy it was to pick up the razor again.

Finally, after realizing that he's honestly too tired to care for the damaged skin as intensely as he needs, he pulls off his jumper - inhaling sharply when the fabric scratches over his wrist - and presses it to the cuts, tears continuing to drip down his face and land on his skin.

From experience, he knows it's bad to not take medicine or bandage his arm properly, but the bathroom seems so far away and his bed is right there and he collapses onto it without a second thought, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling, thinking about trees and death and Phil.

His phone screen remains lit from the call he'd gotten, so he picks it up and groans loudly when he sees he has a voicemail from Phil.

Hey, Love! Turns out the people in charge of this conference 'forgot' to let us know that it got moved to next month. I'll be home at about two a.m. - earliest flight I could get. Hope everything went well for the whole seven hours I've been gone. *laugh* See you soon. Missed you. Bye.

Dan's eyes grow wide and brim with tears once again as he checks the time. 12:30, Phil's going to be home in an hour and a half. 12:30, and Dan's falling apart again. He thought he would have at least a week to heal and to piece himself back together again, but turns out he has an hour and a half.

He launches himself off the bed comically, and in any other situation he would have laughed at his half flip, half jump, but he can't find the energy. He slips the blade and the cigarettes back into the box, and slips the box back into his wardrobe. The matchbox is closed and he gets as close as he'd like to running back to the kitchen, nearly hitting the glass door but stopping himself just in time. He throws the matches under the counter haphazardly and darts to the bathroom, choking down tylenol, splashing water over his arm, and wrapping his wrist in a bandage.

The bed welcomes him once again and he lets out a sigh as he sinks into its soft embrace. Dan closes his eyes and blames his stinging wrist for how hard it is for him to fall asleep.

***

Dan's woken again when he feels a kiss on his cheek and Phil's fingers card through his hair. His heart begins to pound frantically against the confines of his chest and he sits up with a start, making sure his arm is still covered by the duvet.

"Hi," Phil murmurs with a smile, pressing another kiss to Dan's forehead. Dan reluctantly smiles back, scrabbling for a hold on the bedsheets while simultaneously trying his hardest not to break down and confess to everything. Phil notices his troubled look and frowns, wrapping an arm around Dan's bare torso. "What's wrong."

Dan shakes his head, worried that if he opened his mouth and tried to form some sort of lie the truth would come spilling out and Phil would hate him. So he shakes his head and just shrugs.

"Tired?" Phil questions with another smile. Dan nods and yawns to prove his point. Phil nods as well and pulls off his shirt and jeans, slipping into bed next to Dan. His arms snake around Dan's waist and Dan smiles softly, closing his eyes and relaxing into Phil's touch. Slender fingers make their way across Dan's chest and poke his stomach - Phil's attempt at being cute. They dance down Dan's arm before he can realize what's happening and suddenly he does and he tries to pull his arm away but it's too late and Phil's gripping the bandage, sitting up.

"Dan," he inquires, his voice worried. "Dan what happened." And then Dan breaks again, and he's sobbing against Phil's chest, tears sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto his boyfriend's bare shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, over and over. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry..."

Phil's guessed what's wrong by now, and he begins to shake lightly, unwrapping the bandage with quivering fingers. His jaw sets once he sees the cuts littering Dan's skin, and he hushes the gorgeous man in his arms. "It's okay, Baby... It's okay - you're okay.... I love you..." Dan finds all of this hard to believe, but he nods against Phil's chest, tracing the contours of his back with his fingers.

Phil's fingers skim over Dan's sliced wrist, and he sighs quietly, pulling Dan onto his lap and holding him close. "I should have been here. I'm sorry."

Dan frowns, and manages to choke out, "It wasn't your fault..." All Phil can do is kiss the top of his head and reassure him once more that it's going to be okay.

They stay like that for a while, Dan calming in the presence of the man he loves, until Phil rewraps Dan's arm and lies down with him once more, pressing kisses all down his back. "Sleep," he murmurs, and Dan listens but doesn't quite comprehend what he says to do. To sleep you must be relaxed, and that's something that he knows he personally isn't. But he supposes he'll never truly be relaxed - not for a long, long time - so he must take advantage of the blissful moments he gets with Phil. He forces his body to calm down, to ease the tension he's felt all evening, and just be. To just be with Phil and to love him with all his heart.

And so he does, and so he falls asleep, wind traveling through the open window and cooling their tangled bodies. Dan no longer wishes to be lost among the glittering lights.


End file.
